Part Thirty One – Coral Street Warehouse
Heller turned from the heavy door, the strange key still warm in his palm, only to find Jonathan standing in the hallway.
The boy looked pale, his hair untidy, eyes hollow from another restless night. His hands clutched the folds of his robe, and he breathed as though he'd run a mile.
"Who was it?" Jonathan asked quickly, voice low, guarded.
Heller tilted his head. "Not the police, Master Jonathan."
Jonathan exhaled shakily, almost collapsing against the doorframe. "For a moment I thought… Albert." He swallowed. "He keeps circling. Every word he says feels like a trap. He thinks I know more than I do."
Heller studied him, the lad's youth still there beneath the weight of grief. He stepped closer, softening his voice. "You mustn't let his questions undo you. The young detective is sharp, yes, but suspicion without proof is only smoke."
Jonathan's eyes flicked to the butler's hand. "What's that?"
Heller held out the key. The iron teeth glinted faintly in the pale light. "It was delivered just now. A message of sorts. It bears your father's sigil."
Jonathan took it gingerly, as though it might burn him. The grooves of the Hanns crest were cold under his thumb.
"A warehouse perhaps," Heller said quietly. "One of your father's properties, I'd wager. Likely acquired in recent months, down coral street."
The boy's eyes narrowed. Coral Street. Humphrey's words returned to him: his father, spotted in that district, sipping tea with a stranger in a purple hat.
He clenched the key in his fist. "Coral Street," he whispered.
A silence fell, heavy as stone. Jonathan slipped the key into his robe and drew himself up. "Prepare warm water for a bath, Heller. I need to think." His voice steadied, though the shadows under his eyes betrayed his unrest.
"As you wish," the butler replied, bowing with the grace of a man who knew when not to press.